No One's Fault
by IQ of a Walnut
Summary: What would have happened to Ron and Hermione if Harry had died in the final duel? How could their world have gone on? Told by the one woman who could have carried on. Alternate Ending to HP7.


AN: I wondered what would happen to Hermione and Ron if the third corner of their triangle fell apart, so I wrote about what would happen to the love of his life instead. I know the last line sucks, but how was I supposed to end this thing? No flames, but editing suggestions are _very_ welcome!

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><p>It wasn't Ginny's fault that she found love when Harry died. It wasn't her fault that none of her boys had green eyes, or needed glasses, or couldn't convince their hair to stay tidy. It wasn't her fault that her children were healthy and strong and tall and loved to grow plants and forgot <em>everything<em>, or that they made Snape cringe whenever they entered his class. It wasn't her fault that none of them could talk to snakes. It was not Ginny's fault that her children wouldn't—_couldn't_ become replacements for the dead.

But Ron certainly felt that it was. And he chose to spite his sister's sons.

He did not run to embrace his nephews as he did with Louis. He did not offer to babysit them as he did with Dom and Vicky. He did not invite Neville out to drink and swap baby pictures. And, once he was sure that she would not name any child "Harry," Ron most certainly did not speak with her on civil terms.

At family gatherings at the Burrow, Ron would, however, yell, scowl, ignore her, tell stories about Harry, make up stories about Harry, tell her children about Harry, remind her brothers about Harry, show pictures of Harry, and make sure that everyone knew that Neville was _not_ and would _never be_ Harry.

Ginny simply held her head high, hexed her brother in the nose, and took her family home.

Over tea, Hermione swore he wasn't as much of an ass at home. The woman was very good at hiding her own disappointment, making sure to shower the boys in presents and kiss them all goodbye. And of course she was always happy to chat with Neville. But while Hermione would never, ever admit it, Ginny knew that there were times when she looked for dark hair and a talent for the broom in Frank—her eldest—as though hoping that Harry's love child had snuck past death and six months of celibate grief.

Even her mother was not so happy with her, though she worried about the marriage. In soft hints she would ask after her son-in-law, poke and prod about the status of their sex, and generally nose around for any sign that yes, Neville was just a rebound after Harry, and no, Ginny could never have really fallen in love with someone else. Not really.

She endured this all in silence, snarling into her pillow only after Neville was asleep. So what if she had been married and expecting not a year after Harry died? So what if she had chosen someone soft, sweet, and yes, far less interesting than a boy who survived death again and again? She was happy, and that was something she would not give up, no matter what pressure they put on.

When Harry died, he did not take her heart with him. She did not become the weak and weeping thing that most expected of her. That was not the kind of girl Harry fell in love with. So when she laid her rose over his grave, she granted him all the sorrow that she knew he'd want; for six months, Ginny was a recluse. She wore her obligatory black, cried her obligatory tears, visited his obligatory memorial, and borrowed Andromeda's hematite. For six months, she shared in Ron and Hermione's anguish.

But when spring came, she did not carry on like them. She did not haunt the spot in front of his headstone, or wake up screaming about that final duel. She did not keep odds and ends from his school things in her pockets or her purse, and she never thought to sleep with his wand under a pillow.

Instead, Ginny Weasley got a life.

She opened her windows, burnt her tear-stained bedding, put away her widow's weeds, and on Harry Potter's birthday she asked Neville Longbottom for a drink. She'd worn a bright blue dress and a grin for that. Over a butterbeer, she gladly told him why.

"Of course I loved him. I still do, in the way we all love our ex's. And yes, I wanted to grow old with him, but come on—you really think I wasn't preparing for a less-than-happy-ending?"

Neville had been all twitches and stutters, happy but nervous and very, very confused. "But don't you think this is just a bit…_early_ to start dating again?" he'd asked. She thought it was cute that he didn't notice the foam on his upper lip. "Not that I'm not flattered."

"Harry is dead. I didn't get to see him for almost a year, and when I did, it was on the day he died. I loved him. I missed him. And I moved on a long time ago." She put her hand on his. "Trust me Neville. This isn't something I'm going to regret later. I'd like to fall in love again. Preferably with you."

"Because I'm the other kid in the prophesy?" he asked, his voice like a child. No matter how brave he was, Neville was the same tentative boy who lost his toad, was abysmal with the ladies, and thought better of others than himself.

She smiled. "That would be settling for seconds. And I never settle for anything but the best. Besides, I'm not all that big a fan of destiny."

Neville had no more questions for her until October. They were sitting in the living room, and she'd set her knitting down, eying him over the swell of her stomach.

"I think it's time you propose to me."

He'd put down his book, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a ring.

She'd grinned. "Well?"

"What about Ron and Hermione?"

Her grin had dropped like a fly. "What about them?"

"They'll hate you for this. And they'll hate me." He'd looked at her with big, somber brown eyes and she'd wondered what he was feeling.

"I'm not Harry Potter."

She'd nodded. "I know you're not. So what?"

"So they'll hate us!"

"Why do you care?"

"Why _don't_ you care?"

Ginny had paused to blink at that. "I don't understand. Ron and Hermione aren't playing huge roles in our lives."

"But they should be. He's your brother, she's your sister now, and what they think or say _is_ going to matter to your family. But we haven't seen them once since you came to me. Why don't they matter to you?"

She could almost hear the other half of that question; _Why don't they matter to you when they did to Harry?_

Ginny'd wanted to scream. Harry this! Harry that! From her family, the wizarding world, and now her lover? Would she never be rid of this ghost?

"Neville, I love my brother, and he will be as much a part of our lives as we can make him. But I knew from the start that Ron would never be able to be happy for me. He thinks I should be like _them_, stuck missing him because he was part of them. But I wasn't a part of that happy threesome and my love and my grief isn't ever going to be the same as theirs. No matter how much I loved him, they loved him more. They lost more. And Ron isn't going to be able to understand that. Hell, I don't even think Hermione will, though I know she'll try. So please, for my sake, just put the ring on my finger and let us get on with our life."

Because he loved her, Neville decided to try. He'd nodded, kneeled down in front of her chair, and put the ring on her finger.

She'd kissed him and continued to knit.

Now, her children were at school, Neville was experimenting with crossing Womping Willows with Mandrakes, Ginny was training with the Harpies again, and Hermione was pregnant. They were naming the child Harry.

Ginny just rolled her eyes.

If Ron and Hermione wanted to live in the past, they could do it alone. Harry wasn't here, he wouldn't be happy for them, and she was happy for herself.

Harry was never coming back, and that was fine with her.


End file.
